Hundreds of
times this caressing touch had quieted Chilcote.
"Dear old boy!" she said, soothingly, her hand moving slowly
down his arm.
In a flash of understanding the consequences of this position
came to him. Action was imperative, at whatever risk. With
an abrupt gesture he rose.
The movement was awkward. He got to his feet precipitately;
Lillian drew back, surprised and startled, catching
involuntarily at his left hand to steady her position.
Her fingers grasped at, then held his. He made no effort to
release them. With a dogged acknowledgment, he admitted
himself worsted.
How long she stayed immovable, holding his hand, neither of
them knew. The process of a woman's instinct is so subtle, so
obscure, that it would be futile to apply to it the
commonplace test of time. She kept her hold tenaciously, as
though his fingers possessed some peculiar virtue; then at
last she spoke.
"Rings, Jack?" she said, very slowly. And under the two short
words a whole world of incredulity and surmise made itself
felt.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313